The runcible spoonful

By guess & by golly we got there, by hook & by crook. The zigzag egg of our astonishment was weighted with silver, pura plata, and we passed the runcible spoonful back & forth, heaped high with frost. Ho ho honey, we sang, take a whiff on me. My guitar was small but serviceable. The blue light specials called to us from the far shore & we went, ah, over to Gatsby’s again. We were melancholy in the anticipation & melancholy in the aftermath & in between there were the dancing lithesome shadows that that busy little flame threw out. We dined, they say, on mincemeat with spiced quince jelly; I don’t recall. It could be a spoonful of coffee; it could be a spoonful of tea. But I do remember that our dealer healer feeler had a ring at the end of her nose, her nose! It was wild. I looked up at the stars: all that darkness, all those seeds of light. Oh lovely Pussy, oh Pussy my love . . . You know the rest.
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Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave's writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the "share alike" provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).

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